


Where Does It Hurt?

by widdlewed



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Congenital Insensitivity to Pain, Damian Wayne is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Dick can't feel pain, Gen, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Language, One-Shot, Reverse Bat Family, Somewhat graphic description of wounds, Tim Drake is Red Hood, reverse batfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widdlewed/pseuds/widdlewed
Summary: Dick never could feel pain. Becoming a Talon did not change that. The Batfam just kinda learn to deal with it.





	Where Does It Hurt?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! This one-shot was inspired by [this](https://noodling-waffling-loafing.tumblr.com/post/120612474528/i-just-want-a-fanfic-of-reverse-bat-family-with) post!
> 
> I hope I kinda wrote what you were wanting noodling-waffling-loafing! If not, sorry to disappoint!

 

“Father!” Damian’s voice was slightly shrill, reminiscent of his adolescent years. “His rib is sticking out!” 

 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing himself away from the computer desk. Turning in his swivel chair, he found his oldest and youngest son near the Batmobile. Damian, decked in his Nightwing sit, was cradling Robin to his chest. Robin, unmasked and seemingly pouting, had his arms crossed over the black seeping stain along his left ribs. 

 

“Set him on the medical table.” Bruce almost felt back for sounding exasperated. “Strip his uniform off him so we can set it easier.” 

 

“I can heal,” Robin, Dick, tried to argue. His tone was flat. “Just give me a minute.” He stared blankly into the darkness of the cave. “Okay, give me, like, 10 minutes.” 

 

“TT. Idiot,” Damian grumbled as he deposited the child down onto the metal surface. He was careful in cutting away the red, green, and yellow suit to expose the protruding bones. He made a soft gag at the pearly white bone sticking out of ashen flesh, black splotches mimicking blood. 

 

“What happened?” Bruce moved around the cabinets, looking for the gauze. Despite the child’s healing abilities, it always gave him a peace of mind to dress the wounds anyways.Even if they always turned out to be superficial. 

 

“Building collapsed,” Robin reported as he pouted down at his rib. “Oh, there it goes.” The two older men ignored the sickeningly wet sounds of his bones and flesh shifting and mending in the silent med-bay. “Hey is Jay-Jay home?” 

 

“He’s doing homework,” Bruce answered as he reached Robin’s side and began to wrap the gauze around the healed wound. Again, peace of mind. “Though he may have either given up or finished by now. Go get changed.” Robin slipped off the table and disappeared up the stairs leading to the study. Damian frowned after him, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

“I know,” Bruce sighed, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

When Dick Grayson was six years old, his world was ripped away from him and he was cast into darkness and blindingly clean marble. 

 

Even before the years of bloodshed and pink water and white masks, pain was never in the equation of his life. His parents first noticed something wasn’t quite right when he nearly bit through his lip as a toddler. He’d practically nibbled right through the flesh and if it hadn’t been for one of the various entertainers seeing the blood dripping down his chin, he’d have chewed right through. 

 

He’d said it didn't hurt when asked, though for the two year old, hadn’t understood what  _ hurt  _ meant. 

 

After several tests and many months of keeping a hawk-like gaze on their child, they finally had an answer. 

 

Congenital insensitivity to pain, or CIP, as the many internet searches brought up. Their little Robin couldn’t feel pain. He could feel touch, and some temperatures, but not pain. 

 

And for a child in a family of acrobats, that was just a huge problem. 

 

When Dick was four, he broke his femur tumbling off the high bars. He’d only known once he fell to the ground, unable to stand up on his right leg. 

 

When he was five, he’d snapped his arm back at a weird angle trying to do the quadruple flip which resulted in his limbs getting stuck and tangled in the safety net. That’d been a horrible experience for the family to go through. 

 

When he was six, his parents fell and he was snatched up, disappearing with nothing but an owl’s feather to signal his existence.

 

To the Court, pain was not a concept a Talon was supposed to understand. For Dick, he lucked out on having his pain receptors fried and instead skipped right to having his organs failed and his blood replaced by the immorality serum that turned his flesh ashen and his veins navy blue. 

 

Pain was not something Dick - Talon - understood. The definition in the dictionary was foreign to him, along with the cries and screams of his victims. He didn't understand pain. Didn't want to. 

 

His parents had said he was special. Cobb said he was broken. The Court said he was perfect.

 

By eleven years old, he was the perfect Talon. He’d retired Cobb at the age of nine and had kept the mantle of Talon without the slightest competition. 

 

Then he nearly lost his head to a emotionally-broken vigilante named Red Hood and somehow a new chapter of his life had begun. 

 

The night he met Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, he’d been sent for Batman’s head. 

 

Instead, he’d taken a bullet to the head, been rendered unconscious for at least twenty minutes, and woke up in the batcave. 

 

The rest, as they say, was history.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dick…” Red Hood - Tim - spoke slowly, cautiously. “Hey buddy.” The teen crouched down, taking off his helmet. Flesh scarred from crowbar-indents and explosion burns, was twisted in open concern. “You wanna know something?” 

 

“What?” It was almost a vague concept, feeling the black ooze that mimicked his blood, slide down his face. He knew, logically, that he probably had a chunk of his head missing. He’d have to, after taking a bullet to the face. He kept his only working eye (for right now) trained on his older brother, lips twitching down. 

 

“You don’t have any legs right now.” 

 

Well then. Dick- Robin he was Robin right now - let his head angle down. Oh. Well. Yeah, no legs.  His kneecaps down were missing, nothing but mangled green tights and black splatters. Huh. Besides the bullet hole, what else had he got caught up in? It was a bit of a blur. 

 

“Give me a few minutes.” Logically, this should hurt. Videos, books, personal recollections from family members said so. This should have him screaming, going into shock - something. But-

 

Nothing. 

 

“You always say that.” Red Hood replaced his helmet quickly and gentle wrapped his arms around the child. “Okay. Can you focus on healing your legs while I get you to Nightwing and Red Robin?” 

 

Oh, they were not going to be happy. Robin wound his arms around Red Hood’s neck, letting the man pick him up and adjust him as if to make him more comfortable. He wondered when his family would get the hint that he couldn’t feel discomfort. 

 

“I can.” He just had to constantly remind himself that he was missing his limbs. This was like the severed hand all over again. At least the family learned that detached limbs could, in fact, be reattached without issue. 

 

“Focus, little wing.” 

 

Robin stared intently at his dangling legs. Not the worst way to spend a night patrolling. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I said get the fuck down!” 

 

Dick tilted his head to the side, yellow eyes (hidden behind very deep blue contacts) wide and curious. He was so intrigued. It was his first public robbery as a civilian. These men, six of them, looked so confident but anxious at the same time. It was so, so intriguing. 

 

“Dick!” Jason, hands on his head and kneeling on the ground, hissed low. “Get down!” Inwardly, the vigilante panicked. God, why today of all days did they have to get involved in a bank robbery? He’d just wanted to withdraw some money for an ice cream cake for the two to share. God, Bruce was going to flip his lid when he heard they were caught in a hostage situation.

 

“Why?” Dick turned his head to stare Jason down and the teen bit back a groan. Uhg. He was in Talon mode now. “They can’t kill me.”

 

“This is your last warning!” The robber aimed his gun at Dick’s feet and fired off a warning shot. The hostages shrieked and flinched away, Jason included. Dick just stared at the smoking bullet hole before lifting his eyes up to the man. “Get. The Fuck. Down!” 

 

“You are a hostile threat.” Batman always told him how dangerous people with guns were. The Court never used them - had no reason to when their Talons were as silent as ghosts and as deadly as nuclear bombs. But Batman - Batman instilled an understanding that people with guns were bad. Dangerous. 

 

And Robin dealt with dangerous, bad men every single day since he took on the mask and tights. 

 

“That’s it!” 

 

It took everything Jason had not to act on his years of training and leapt to Dick’s rescue. Dick wouldn't die. He couldn’t. He’d be fine. 

 

The bullet snapped Dick’s head back as it made contact between his eyes. 

 

Nothing could prepare Jason, or the other gathered hostages, for the gruesome scene they were introduced to. Unlike the movies, where people with headshots were just knocked back with little bloodshed, the bullet shot through the back of Dick’s skull, sending blood, skull fragments, and brain matter with it. Black blood splattered across Jason’s twisted expression as the body smacked hard against the pristine tile flooring of the bank. 

 

No one spoke. 

 

The other robbers looked as shocked as the hostages.

 

Then a woman screamed and all hell broke loose. 

 

“SHUT UP!” A bullet to the ceiling silenced everyone’s hysterical sobs or shouts.

 

Jason was staring, almost transfixed, on Dick’s body. He saw the child’s hand twitch. 

 

“Next person to get on my nerves is gonna end up like-” 

 

A knife sliced cleanly through the man’s jugular, silencing him. He went down hard. Dick stood over him, blood leaking from his head as he held his knives loosely. Yellow eyes, now perfectly visible through the colored contacts, burned into the remaining robbers. 

 

“Surrender.” 

 

They dropped their guns. 

 

Jason wondered, later when they were escorted through the backdoor by Red Hood and disappeared into the Batmobile and away from curious people, if Bruce was ever thankful he was still waiting to tell the public about Jason’s and Dick’s adoption to the Wayne family. 

 

Thank god no one had known who the two young boys were. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Does it hurt?” 

 

Damian gritted his teeth hard enough to grind his molars together and peeled his eyes open. Dick hovered over him, watching Alfred’s steady hands sewn together his thigh. He’d been shot dangerously close to the femoral artery and no matter how many bullet wounds he received, it was never any easier. 

 

“I’m fine,” the oldest Wayne bit out. Dick leaned closer, ducking away from Alfred’s chatising swat, and peered at the bloody wound. 

 

“You do not sound fine. Your voice is three octaves higher than normal and your flesh is sweaty. Your skin is two shades paler and your eyes are bloodshot.” Dick peeked up. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” 

 

Damian knew he couldn’t lie. One thing they hadn’t been able to fix with Dick was his habit to state his observations. The Court had trained him well - even better than the League had trained Damian. 

 

“Yes,” he relented with a shaky exhale. “It hurts.” A lot, actually, but he wasn’t going to say that with Alfred giving him a knowing look. 

 

“Oh.” Dick touched his white-knuckled fist and slowly uncurled his white fingers to release his blood flow. “I’m sorry you are suffering.” 

 

Damian exhaled again as Alfred tied the thread and leaned back against the bed. Dick wiggled his way against his side and curled close, like a cat offering comfort to a sickly owner. He marveled, briefly, how far the child had come. Only a year ago, the child would just stare indifferently, uncomphresenable, at their pain and suffering. 

 

Now -  _ now  _ he seemed to understand, at least on some basic level, what pain was and that it hurt his loved family members. 

 

It was growth. Slow, but something. 


End file.
